


jesus christ, i'm alone again

by IAmNotLost



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, KIND OF ANGSTY???, M/M, but not????, i don't even know what went on here, i need to stop excessive tagging things, this is sort of an AU but not really???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:59:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotLost/pseuds/IAmNotLost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something was seriously wrong. </p><p>Or, the story where Stiles never existed. (But he did. He really did, and he had to figure out how to get back. He had to.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	jesus christ, i'm alone again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Jesus Christ by Brand New.
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> Just a quick note...I'm sorry if things switch between tenses. D: DON'T MURDER ME, PLEASE. I have a problem switching from past to present. I tried to catch as many of those types of mistakes as I could, but there's probably still some around. I'm working on fixing that really bad habit. Sorry, guys. But besides that, I really hope you enjoy, maybe?

The last thing Stiles remembers is the fight with a warlock. He was a skilled enchanter, one that could manipulate everything from the lifeless to the living. He remembers getting on the warlock’s bad side, that’s for sure. He can almost actually _see_ Derek and Scott and Allison, with her bow ready for fire, but then—nothing. There’s nothing. Stiles doesn’t remember being hit by anything. 

Maybe he blacked out? And someone took him to his room—most likely Scott. It seemed plausible, seeing as he was waking up. He wasn’t on a bed, though…so maybe it was Derek. The guy probably just chucked him and left.

Rude.

Stiles wakes up with a throbbing headache; one that’s pulsating behind his eyes so hard that he has to grab at his head, clenching his eyelids together until the pain disappears.

Well. This was new.

He sits up, rubbing his sore back with one hand. Stiles takes in the room—it’s definitely his. He knows this room. But it isn’t… _his_. There’s no bed, for one. There’s a lot of empty space, and white walls, and a desk with an old-looking computer on it. No posters or CD’s or movies were lying around. No clothes. 

Nothing.

Stiles licks his suddenly dry lips, standing up with a sense of newfound urgency. Something seems wrong, but…but he was in his house, right? That had to have counted for something.

He made his way down the stairs, pausing to check the time. That was another thing—he didn’t have his cell phone. He _always_ kept it in his pocket. Always. Maybe someone in the pack had it. 

The house was relatively silent, and Stiles was getting more and more freaked out by the moment. It was 7:15—Stiles’ dad would have been getting ready for work around this time. He always woke Stiles up 20 minutes before his alarm because he made so much noise in the kitchen. But now, Stiles couldn’t hear a thing.

Stiles walked slowly, taking in the little differences. The house was…a lot messier. Pizza boxes covered the kitchen table, and Stiles could see a pack of Instant Ramen on the counter. Stiles nearly had a heart attack, what the hell was his dad _thinking_? Instant Ramen was, like, a cup of _sodium_.

Stiles sighed in relief as he got into the living room. There on the couch was his father, snoring soundly in his sleep. Stiles couldn’t help the reassured chuckle from passing his lips.

“Dad, wake up. You’re going to be late for work.” 

Nothing. Stiles rolled his eyes. “Dad, seriously! Get up. I need to yell at you about the instant ramen, let alone the pizza.”

He didn’t even stir in his sleep, though. Stiles’ eyebrows drew together—his dad was breathing, so he was okay, right? Before Stiles could question it further, a phone alarm sounded, making his father blink the sleep out of his eyes as he yawned and sat up on the couch.

Wow, he was…well, he was carrying a _lot_ more weight than Stiles remembered, which…didn’t make much sense. Huh. It was probably the recent intake of ramen.

“Finally, dad. Way to sleep through me talking.”

Stiles’ father brushed right by him, going to far as to smack him in the shoulder. 

John Stilinski didn’t react. 

Stiles could feel the color drain from his face as he ran past the couch and into the kitchen, stepping in front of his father. “Dad? Not funny. I’m not a _ghost_. I can touch you.” To prove his point, he put his hands on his father’s shoulders, shaking for emphasis. Stiles could _feel_ the clothing material beneath his fingers. It was there. John didn’t move, however—it was just Stiles’ arms shaking.

Stiles could feel his fingers start to tremble. 

“Dad?”

Something was seriously wrong.

 

 

It took him about an hour to calm down. Stiles felt like it was a justified panic attack—he was suddenly pulling a Patrick Swayze in Ghost, without any recollection of why. He didn’t _remember_ dying. That’s something one would remember, right? 

He tried basing his experiences off of a Patrick Swayze movie, and it wasn’t even working. There were no traces showing that Stiles ever existed. So, he couldn’t even use the fucking Swayze movie. He had _nothing to go on._ That was the part that terrified him the most. 

Stiles had to breathe himself through the panic attack like he used to when he was a kid, with his head between his knees and the ghost of his mother’s palm against his back. There was no Adderall in the house—why would there be? Stiles apparently didn’t live there. Didn’t live anywhere; there weren’t even family pictures around. Looking around, Stiles saw that it was just his dad.

His dad, and a lot of empty whiskey bottles. A lot more than there were in reality. 

(Stiles almost threw up when he thought that maybe _this_ was reality; maybe his whole life had been a dream, and he never actually existed, or something, or maybe this was reality now and whatever happened erased him from life completely, or—he had to stop himself from creating other scenarios. Stiles was _real_.)

He gave himself a good fifteen minutes to wallow and panic and cry after he, for the most part, calmed down. He took those fifteen minutes and used them, clinging to the pillow on the couch that his mom knit when she had to spend all of that time in the hospital. 

And then it was over, and Stiles had to pull himself together, because he learned the hard way that crying gets you nothing. He wallowed for a few years after his mom died—all he did was cry—and it didn’t bring her back. He was alone, until it got bearable, and he had his dad and Scott and the pack.

Jesus Christ, he was alone again.

But there was no time for that—Stiles took his hour and fifteen minutes and used them, and he promised himself he would figure this out. (While trying to not think about how _he didn’t exist, oh my god, how was he supposed to find anything out when no one could talk to him?_ )

That thought led to a basis of things, though—maybe someone could see him. Maybe…maybe the pack could see him. He was still in that “semi-pack-but-not-really” back home, (this wasn’t home this wasn’t home this wasn’t home) but it was mostly him being faux-begrudging. He liked the pack. 

Stiles took off to Scott’s house by foot because he didn’t have a jeep in this weird fake Beacon Hills, and didn’t stop until he reached the front door, where Mrs. McCall was carrying in groceries. 

Well, she couldn’t see him, either. Stiles tried to ignore the pang in his chest as he slipped inside the open door, and up the stairs into Scott’s room. It was a Saturday morning, according to the calendar in his house—yesterday had been Friday, Stiles remembered, so there wasn’t any time lapse.

“Scott? Dude. Can you…man this is fucked up. Can you hear me?” Scott slept away, even as Stiles poked him on the shoulder a couple of times. The panic in his chest started to blossom again but he swallowed it down, moving instead to pick up Scott’s phone. Maybe…maybe he’d be able to find something. Stiles was glad that Scott was asleep, because he didn’t know if the phone, like, floated or something. Maybe it stayed on the table as if Stiles never even touched it. He kind of didn’t want to find out.

Stiles almost cried at the familiarity of seeing Allison text him sort of silly things…until he saw other flirty texts from other girls’ names. And Jackson. A lot of bro-talk with Jackson. Like, serious bro talk. The ‘where’re we hanging this weekend’ and ‘party at Sam’s at 7’ sort of bro talk. 

Not a single text from Stiles. No one named Stiles was a contact. Stiles’ dad wasn’t listed as ‘emergencies only’. Nothing.

He wasn’t friends with Scott because he didn’t exist.

Stiles all but took off out of the house, slamming into Mrs. McCall’s shoulder on his way out. Not that she could feel it. 

He did throw up, then. Right on the ground in front of Scott’s house. A woman was walking her dog and she didn’t jerk back, didn’t acknowledge anything, but Stiles could see it. It was _there._ There was vomit, right there, clear as day. He just puked. The woman didn’t bat an eyelash.

Stiles’ world was spinning. He was dizzy and crying and laughing hysterically all at once, and then nothing. He blacked out again.

 

 

When Stiles woke up again, he was on a couch. He was on a couch, and _oh God_ , the setting was familiar. Stiles was in the old Hale house. Different couch, but it was unmistakable. In reality, Derek’s house was fixed up for the most part, but here, it was still just the crumbling remains. 

“Who are you?”

Stiles was shaken out of his thoughts by a distrustful looking Derek, whose eyes were glowing…red?

“You’re an alpha here, too?”

That threw him off for a split second, but Derek was back on his game, looking as menacing as ever. Looking—oh my god, Derek could _see_ him. Stiles had to swallow down the lump in his throat because he didn’t know if he’d ever be seen…well, again. 

“Who are you? I’m not asking you again.” 

Definitely not the nicer Derek, then. Stiles couldn’t see any of the slightly familiar joking in his gaze. There was no laughter, and there was no warmth. 

“I…you don’t know me?”

Derek’s scowl deepened. Stiles wanted to hug him. “Would I ask you if I knew?”

“I…I’m Stiles Stilinski.” 

“You’re not a Stilinski. Sheriff didn’t have any kids.” Stiles could see Derek’s eyes harden at the thought of him lying, so he held his hands out appeasingly in front of him. 

“Please just hear me out? This is going to sound insane. Bat shit crazy. But you have to hear me out, please, you have to listen to me, man I spent all fucking morning thinking no one else was going to—“

“Stiles.” It was in the tone of voice, the _Derek tone of voice_ , and Derek looked shocked that something so…easy came out of his mouth. Like it always happened. It did, Stiles wanted to reason, but now wasn’t the time.

“Just…I’m not a threat, okay? I know you, you wouldn’t—you wouldn’t have let me in if I was a threat. How did you even find me?”

“I don’t…know.” Stiles could see that he was kind of lying. There was a little bit of truth to uncover there. “What am I supposed to be listening to?”

“I’m not…from here.”

Derek just gave him a look as if he were looking at an idiot. Stiles was going to burst into tears at the panic unclenching in his chest at any moment, he was sure of it.

“I’m…we have a pack. Not we, as in we formed a pack, but I’m a sort of human thing in your pack. I live in Beacon Hills. You’re the alpha of the pack. You, um, it’s—“ Stiles fumbled around, words popping into his brain far too quickly for his mouth to keep up. “Scott, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, me, there’s…Jackson, sort of, and Lydia and Allison, and we’re…sort of a pack, thing. And I’m from Beacon Hills. My dad is the Sheriff. My best friend is Scott. I’m _from Beacon Hills._ ”

Derek’s shoulders were tense; Stiles could almost see him clenching his muscles through his shirt. He also had a black leather jacket slung over the arm of the couch, and it made Stiles a lot happier than it should have. 

“I know you can tell when I’m lying.” Stiles offered, because Derek looked like he wanted to say something, but it wasn’t working. Stiles remembers when Derek was like this. Still is, but it’s gotten better because of the pack, and interactions. 

This is the Derek that, Stiles knows, has nothing. 

“Then what happened?” Derek asked, finally, after Stiles had given up on ever getting an answer. 

“We were fighting a warlock and—“ Derek’s eyebrows went up before scrunching together in thought. Stiles cut himself off, didn’t even bother finishing his sentence. Derek wasn’t listening now, anyway.

“I fought off a…strange warlock yesterday.”

“You did?”

“By myself.”

“We fought one as a pack. I mean, he was kind of kicking our butts, and I—I don’t remember what happened. I just woke up on the floor of what was supposed to be my room, but…wasn’t.” Stiles dropped his gaze. He doesn’t want to remember those terrifying moments in his house. 

“We’ll figure this out.” Derek looked a lot warmer than he did a few minutes ago, and Stiles sucked up the comfort greedily, soaking in what he could without moving closer—they tolerated each other in reality, they weren’t really friends, even if Stiles sometimes thought they could be.

For some reason, he trusted this Derek. The only thing that seemed sort of similar _was_ Derek. So, Stiles nodded his head slightly, tugging at the hem of his tee shirt with his fingertips. If he looked a little freaked out, Derek didn’t call him out on it. 

Stiles was grateful.

Derek has been a lot nicer than Stiles had expected. It’s been a month (Stiles has been living like a ghost for thirty days. He panics a lot.) and he’s taken up a temporary residency in Derek’s home. They alternate between who gets the couch and the bed, and that’s only upon Stiles’ insistence. Derek went so far as to even offer him the bedroom for the time being. It was strange. Nice, obviously—but strange.

They do a lot of research. They plan. Derek sometimes comes back with a bunch of books taken out from the library, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He’s also friends with Deaton, who doesn’t know the story, but doesn’t mind lending Derek books whenever he wants them.

Stiles also manages to find out a little bit more about this…place. Scott is a douchebag who hangs out with Jackson. Allison is one of his many girlfriends. Lydia and Jackson are the same as ever. Boyd and Erica and Isaac haven’t really made any appearances in Derek’s life. Stiles’ dad is the Sheriff.

Stiles learns about this Derek, too, even though there’s not much. He’s the Alpha because he killed his rogue Alpha uncle. His family story is still the same. Derek is just a lot more alone, here.

“Dude.” Stiles is sitting in a pair of too-big pajama pants and a tee shirt, surrounded by books about magic. (And yes, Derek was nice enough to go out and buy him a few things, but Stiles also doesn’t mind borrowing old clothes. This is a luxury the other Derek wouldn’t give him. Stiles is going to take all the luxuries here that he can, because he’s probably not going to get many in this weird alternate Stiles-less reality.)

“What?”

“I think I need to find the warlock. I think it’s my best chance.”

Derek’s face goes a little pinched, but he doesn’t say much for a few moments. “I’m obviously going with you, you know. You can’t do much on your own.”

“Well, I realize that I’m sort of disabled in the—“

“You’re a human going against a warlock.”

“I’m barely human right now, Derek.”

“But I can see you.”

“And I still can’t figure out why.” It’s something that really has been on Stiles’ mind, actually. Whenever he has a spare moment that he finds himself not thinking about how to get the fuck back home, it’s…why Derek, of all people? He doesn’t really mind much, it’s just…unexpected.

Then again, this entire scenario is fucked up, so he shouldn’t be trying to find any serious answers.

“You can touch me too, right?”

“I carried you unconscious into my house, so yes.”

Stiles hadn’t really thought of that. How a month ago, Derek had, what, coincidentally found him lying on the floor and decided to pick him up?

“How did that happen, by the way?”

“I picked you up, Stiles, with my arms?”

It was almost kind of nice, really, seeing Derek turn more and more relaxed as the days progressed. He was still the same guy—Stiles could see it. He bet that everyone else was the same, too, just…just without Stiles in their lives. Stiles opted to ignore the ‘why did you even pick me up’ question for a little while longer. 

“So…Scott is a dick because I’m not around?”

Derek shrugs, shoulders relaxing at the questions about that morning that didn’t come. “If you say he’s a good kid from…you know. Then yeah, I guess so.”

“And…” Stiles swallows, averting his gaze back to the books. Derek could feel the sadness seep into the air, and he’s just about desperate to make the sadness go away, and he doesn’t even know _why_. “My dad?”

Derek had told Stiles a little about his father, trying to keep the bad things sort of hidden. “I saw a lot of…my dad’s not taking care of himself, is he?”

Stiles can see the way Derek’s eyes focus on a spot behind Stiles’ shoulder and he sighs, already sort of knowing the answer.

“Sheriff Stilinski…is a good Sheriff. No one…calls him out on his flaws.”

“Flaws?”

“After his wife died, he had…well, no one. He drinks. A lot. Doesn’t eat too healthily. He doesn’t take much care of himself.”

Stiles was up and out of the house before Derek even blinked.

 

 

The only time Stiles freaks out in front of Derek was that night.

Derek had found him sitting on the curb in the cold, still in Derek’s old pajama pants and a plain tee shirt, with a stupid pair of too-big socks. Derek didn’t say anything, just helped him to his feet by tugging lightly on his arm. They were both quiet, and Derek didn’t _know_ that being quiet was weird for Stiles. Derek didn’t _know_ Stiles. 

Derek led him over to the Camaro, one of the only things that was still blissfully the same. He sunk into the leather seats as if they could bring him home.

The ride was silent, minus the hum from the heat coming out of the vents. Stiles didn’t realize how cold he was, until he was shivering from his body trying to get back to a normal temperature. It wasn’t like Beacon Hills was in Alaska, or something, but the late November nights could be really, really cold. Especially in a flimsy tee shirt.

Derek didn’t help Stiles out of the car, and Stiles was oddly grateful. He walked up the stairs and into the house and didn’t stop until he was back on that couch, staring at his fists in his lap. Derek came around cautiously, and Stiles wanted to laugh, because _he didn’t exist._

Stiles didn’t realize he was laughing until Derek was crouching down in front of him. He also didn’t realize he was crying until warm tears started hitting his clenched hands. Dammit. 

“What am I going to do?” It probably didn’t sound like words between the hysterical laughter and the tears, but Derek was a werewolf, right? He could probably understand these sorts of…sounds. 

Stiles sounded broken. He figured a lonely alpha would understand.

Derek didn’t say anything, _couldn’t_ say anything, so he tentatively put his arms around Stiles’ shoulders, trying to offer some sort of comfort. Derek hasn’t…touched anyone in a while. 

Stiles drunk in the offered support hungrily, pushing into the hug so hard that they both collapsed on the group, Derek letting out a quiet grunt as his tailbone his the wooden floors. Neither of them let go, though, even after Stiles’ panicked heart calmed down. Derek didn’t let go until Stiles’ grip went slack and his breathing evened out. 

He carried Stiles up the stairs and into the bedroom, placing him under the blankets with a soft sigh and made his way back to the couch.

Neither of them had nightmares that night.

 

 

Something changed after that. Nothing too big—just a subtle shift that Stiles didn’t even realize until he actually thought about it. 

They touched more.

Stiles clung to any physical contact he could get because it was comforting, and Derek offered it up more. The sat shoulder to legs when they were researching on the couch, they brushed fingertips while cooking (Stiles refused to just sit around. If his father couldn’t get good meals, at least Derek would. And now, Derek even helps out.) and ate on the same side of the table. Stiles didn’t know who was more contact starved—himself, or Derek. 

“You could stay here, for tonight, if you want.” 

The two of them had ended up watching a movie in Derek’s room, because Stiles had _insisted_ that if he had to stay there, there would at least have to be a TV in the room. It was a small one and it sat on an old, dusty nightstand, but it was something. Anything was better than silence, sometimes. 

Derek had been making his way downstairs, to the couches, when Stiles spoke up. His voice didn’t waver, but his gaze was still on the television set, eyes set so firmly on the quiet static that it was obvious he was pointedly not looking. It made Derek crack a tiny smile.

“I just mean, you know, you have a big bed, and from the times I got to stay on the couch and I know how it’s not comfortable, and, like, I’m even smaller than you are, sort of, I mean, we’re close in height but you’re _way_ more built than I am, so, like—“ Stiles rambled, bringing his attention back to Derek, who had already turned to rest his back against the doorframe, watching Stiles with a raised brow.

“You look like the Derek from…you know.” The two of them stopped calling either of the Beacon Hills reality, simply out of respect for the other. Stiles didn’t want this Derek to think he didn’t exist. Stiles knows what that feels like.

“Shouldn’t I?”

“Well, I mean…when I first met you, this you, you reminded me of…the old Derek.” 

Derek tilted his head and walked back over, taking a seat at the opposite end of the bed. He stretched out his legs and leaned back against his palms, watching Stiles with a curious look in his eyes.

“Lonely.” Was all that Stiles added, eyes lingering on the extra quilt that Derek had brought up a few nights ago, because Stiles was fragilely human, and a thin bed sheet wasn’t going to cut it on winter nights.

“What’s the…’new’ Derek like, then?” He ended up asking, because curiosity and the need to know that he might have been _happy_ somewhere was bubbling up in his throat.

“Annoying and sarcastic.” Stiles grinned a little, focusing on the stubble of Derek’s chin as he conjured up his memories. “You used to be really cold and standoffish. You shoved me into things a lot, tried to instill fear. And okay, it worked a little. But you have a pack, now. You have people to look after. You—you care about your pack. It’s full of kids that no one really wanted. They…they look up to you. You’re a lot less lonely, now.” 

“It sounds nice.” Derek offers up, because he doesn’t know what else to say. It’s not like that here. Here, Derek has no one. He doesn’t even have Stiles. Stiles is going to leave, once he can figure out how. And it makes sense—Derek doesn’t blame him. He’s in a world where there’s no such thing as Stiles. Except there is to Derek, now. Letting go of it is going to be hard, he realizes. 

“I’m sorry, I—“

“Don’t. It’s fine.”

Derek doesn’t stay in the room, and Stiles doesn’t ask again.

 

 

“I think I found a way to get back to my Beacon Hills.” 

The thought stops Derek in his tracks; Derek, who had gotten used to the noisy kid who sometimes needed comfort more than Derek did. Who had grown to like the warm meals. Who had figured that the reason everything seems to sound better in Stiles’ Beacon Hills, is because Stiles was there to keep everything going.

“How?” Derek swallows, busies himself with opening a can of soda.

“One of the books you brought from Deaton…there’s a lot about warlocks in it. I think, whatever this is, is magic done by a warlock obviously. There are a lot of reverse spells and potions and weird things like that. One of them has to work. Nothing should go badly, either—if there’s nothing to reverse, the spell just won’t work. Right?”

“Right.” Derek nods. He doesn’t know that much about warlocks, the first time he dealt with one was that particular one a few months back—and he hadn’t even done anything. It was a random visit. It didn’t make sense. Derek figures it had to do with Stiles. (Everything seems to revolve around Stiles, now. Derek inhales and exhales Stiles.)

“I mean, it’s the best thing I have to go on for now, I guess. I don’t think we’ll be able to just, like, find ourselves the warlock responsible for this. I don’t think he’s going to pop up out of the blue, so I have to do what I can. Oh hey, you brought pizza!” Stiles was kind of really hungry, actually. Derek hadn’t gone shopping, and refuses to let Stiles waltz out of the supermarket with bags full of groceries just because no one else can see it happening.

The two of them go up to the bedrooms to sit on the floor and watch TV, pizza and sodas in hand. This happens about once a week when Stiles decides to allow Derek some unhealthy (but wonderfully delicious) pizza, because Derek doesn’t really need to worry about his figure or health. He just lets Stiles cook anyway, which is nice. 

It’s a quiet night. They laugh at some stupid reality TV marathon(that’s all the same—all of the shows are the same.) and eat an entire large pie of pizza. Stiles feels warm and stuffed, and he’s half asleep on Derek’s shoulder before the eighth episode of the show plays. 

It’s not home. There’s no way this could ever ben home. He doesn’t have his dad, or Scott, or the other Derek. But…but this Derek’s not so bad. He’s the one thing that kind of remained the same after Stiles got through to it. Cold until warmed up. 

 

 

Stiles kisses this Derek on a rainy Wednesday.

He didn’t just ‘fall in love,’ that’s ridiculous. Stiles, well—he kind of couldn’t stand Derek at first. Any Derek. He was the enemy, in a way, and he was rude, and frankly he was terrifying. 

Stiles had to overlook the body of a Greek god, because no body could win over personality in his book. (He liked Lydia because he saw her when no one else could. She was gorgeous, sure—but there was more.)

But then the pack happened. Before Stiles could even think about it, he was part of Derek’s pack, and Derek was nicer, more considerate. He smiled. He protected Stiles when he needed to be protected. It was annoying, being a liability, but Derek didn’t complain (much), just told him to stay safe. And when Stiles decided not to take that advice, Derek was there to help. 

And _then_ Stiles added in the hotness factor, because Derek deserved it. 

Obviously Stiles wasn’t going to do anything about it—there was a likelier chance of hell freezing over and Satan coming up to rule the planet than there was of Derek reciprocating his feelings.

And Stiles was…sort of all right with that. Unrequited love seemed to follow him around. It wasn’t the ideal situation, sure—but it was manageable in his book. Besides, he got over Lydia, right? Then he’d be able to get over Derek, too.

But then…then _this_ happened. And it smells like Derek and looks like Derek and acts like Derek, and this is Derek, to Stiles. Just as his dad is his dad and Scott is Scott. They’re just how they would be if Stiles was never around, right? But if he was…they’d be the same.

It’s confusing. Stiles doesn’t get it, doesn’t get how this happened—but it has to mean something that out of everyone, Derek’s the one who could see him, right? It has to mean _something._

And maybe it’s a little unfair to kiss this Derek. This Derek, who doesn’t have Isaac or Boyd or Erica or anyone, who kind of just let Stiles into his life because Stiles was one of those lost, broken kids that Derek seemed to like helping.

Stiles kisses Derek on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. They’re outside and it’s a good thing that Derek lives away from everything, because it would have looked really weird to outsiders.

Stiles had said something and Derek did the _smile._ Not just any smile—back home, Erica called this Stiles’ smile, because Derek didn’t do it at anyone else, apparently. It was mostly exasperated with a hint of fondness, and it took Stiles’ breath away, because it was _aimed at him._

This Derek did it just then, the Stiles’ smile on his face and an eyebrow cocked, _exactly like his Derek,_ and Stiles couldn’t help himself in the slightest. 

He tugged Derek closer by the collar of his stupidly tight Henley and crushed his lips against the slightly taller man’s. Stiles thought kisses in the rain were supposed to be more romantic, but this one was just wet and a little awkward. The Notebook taught him nothing.

But Stiles’ fingers weren’t letting go of the collar, not yet, because he wasn’t going to get an opportunity like this ever again. Seriously. Stiles was definitely going to get shot down.

It got significantly better when he could feel Derek starting to reciprocate, though. Fingers slid against the wetness of his tee shirt, gripping against the fabric and digging into skin. Derek kissed him like he was going to disappear—it was hurried and scared and needy, as if _Derek_ was the one who wanted this all along.

Okay. Maybe he wasn’t going to get shot down.

“Why did we go outside in the first place?” Stiles panted against Derek’s lips, thumb running along the underside of Derek’s jaw.

“You thought it would be a change of scenery—a fun idea.”

“A damn good fucking idea, if you were to ask me.”

 

 

It hadn’t been a good idea.

“You smelt like home.”

“Hm?”

Stiles is curled up in bed with Derek on a lazy Saturday, four months after the whole alternate universe thing happened. Stiles hasn’t given up search…but he’s taking a little more time with it, now.

Which is bad. Which is so, so bad. It causes something painful to squeeze in his chest, right in his sternum, because Stiles knows this can’t last. He can’t stay. Stiles doesn’t belong here.

And maybe staying with this Derek wouldn’t be so bad. But Stiles can’t _not_ talk to anyone else for the rest of his existence. 

He can’t leave the Scott and Dad and _Derek_ of his world. They need him, too. His dad needs him, if there is another world. Stiles knows what will happen to his dad if he’s gone. He’s seen it with his own eyes.

“That day I found you. I couldn’t understand what it was, but…but it smelt like home. You did.”

“I—“ _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I need to leave you and I’m so sorry._

“Don’t worry about it. You just asked a few times, I figured…” Derek shrugged. “You could know, I guess.”

They lay in silence for a while, the TV muted. Stiles doesn’t know why he muted it when he’s the one who demanded noise at least 20 out of the 24 hours in a day, but it felt a little…less rude, this way. Or maybe that was just Stiles.

“I’m—“

“You have to leave. I know.”

“I don’t really wa—“

“Don’t.” Derek cuts him off so suddenly that Stiles sees the flash of red in his eyes. “I don’t know if this is real either, you know. Maybe this is all in your mind, since you seem to be the reason for all this. Maybe I’m made up. Maybe I’ll be gone when you get back to whatever Beacon Hills you’re from. This whole universe could be fake. I don’t _know_ , Stiles. But I do know you want to leave. You need to leave, I get it. This isn’t your world, or life, or whatever. It’s mine. It was just…” Derek stops, looking like he’s trying to figure out what to say. His eyebrows are scrunched together and Stiles knows that talking is hard for Derek. That this Derek _is_ his Derek back home. They’re too similar while everything else is different. Why is it just Derek? Why did he stay the same?

“It was just nice, having you here.”

Stiles never should have kissed him. If this place is real, he’s going to leave Derek just like everyone else he liked did. He’s going to leave him, and after a few months Derek will believe he was hallucinating, or something. It’s not like Stiles could have left anything behind. 

“I’m sorry.”

Derek leans forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “I know.”

 

 

They don’t talk about it, and Derek hasn’t kissed him since that night.

 

 

They fall back into a semi-normal pattern, like they’ve been doing all of this time. Stiles goes through the book of reversals spell by spell, but always with Derek right next to him. Derek takes the liberty of spending most of his days like that, just because he knows that Stiles had given him five months, and it was time for him to leave. He had an actual life to be living.

It would be selfish to try and keep him.

“This is the last one.”

Neither of them had realized how quickly the book of reversals had gone—probably because none of them had worked.

It’s a Monday morning, and Stiles’ fingers are trembling over the last page of the book, biting his lip so hard that Derek could almost smell the blood. 

“We could do it tomorrow, maybe—“

“Stiles.”

And Stiles chuckles, but it sounds a little sad, so Derek curls his fingers around Stiles’ shoulder in encouragement. He was used to being a bit stronger. Besides, this wasn’t the end of the world. Or maybe it was. But Derek wouldn’t have ever existed, so it’s not like he’d feel any pain.

“What if it doesn’t work? Can I stay?“

“You can stay here with me for as long as you need. But if it doesn’t work, we’re going to try and find another book.”

“What if it…does work?”

Derek shrugs, eyes skimming over the words on the page. Different language—Derek doesn’t know what it means. But he feels something. It’s going to work. 

“I had fun with you, then.”

“You’re the worst person in the world.” Stiles isn’t crying, not really, but his face is a little blotchy and his once trembling fingers are curled into fists. 

“You’re Derek,” He continues, determination on his face. “You’re this Derek and you’re also the Derek from my place. You’re the same. You are him, and I love you. Shut up, don’t say anything—it wasn’t a spur of the moment thing, I had this talk to myself too, okay. You’re the same. This might end up being really anti-climatic, but if I go somewhere where you don’t know any of this, or none of this happened, I just—I love you, okay?”

“Stiles, stop talking.” Because it’s not fucking easy, losing everything all over again.

“I’m sorry.” And then Stiles is mumbling those letters together and collapsing to the floor, clutching his head. The headache, the one he felt all those months ago—it’s pulsing at his head, pounding in his ears and behind his eyes.

“Stiles? **Stiles!** ” 

Stiles blacks out.

 

 

“Stiles? Hey—mom! Mom, I think he’s waking up. Stiles?”

Stiles groans because someone is fucking yelling in his ear, and he probably has the biggest bitch of a headache that could ever be known to man.

“Oh thank God, man. You’ve been out for, like, two weeks. We were really—”

“Scott, move, don’t crowd in on him. Stiles, sweetie, it’s Mrs. McCall. Can you hear me?”

The only thing Stiles can do is nod, because he really _does_ feel like he hasn’t drank anything in weeks, and his mouth is probably so dry it won’t open. A straw presses to his lips and Stiles can see his dad, looking tired and more pale than ever, holding a cup to him with a relieved smile on his face and glossy eyes. After Stiles takes a few sips he sits up, pleasantly surprised to find that he’s not in much pain, save for his broken leg.

They don’t bombard him with questions, which he’s really grateful for. A doctor comes in and does some tests and declares Stiles as healthy as ever, no head injuries, no internal injuries—just a broken leg and maybe a few bruises. But those were already yellowing, so Stiles didn’t even feel that sore.

It isn’t until the hype of Stiles being awake settles down that he actually takes a moment to _remember_ what happened. The doctor wants to keep him overnight, just to be sure, and Stiles kicks his dad out with firm instructions to get a good night of rest, because he was _fine._

Not until hugging him with all the strength his body could muster, though, because Stiles was out of that weird fucking twilight zone and _his father could hug him and see him and talk to him._ Even Scott hugged him. Lydia came with the rest of the pack to say hello, too. 

Everyone came by, except Derek. But Stiles didn’t have time to ask—besides, it’s not like this Derek had any reason to see Stiles.

(Stiles had been hoping that it hadn’t all been in his head—but it must have been. He was in a coma.)

It turns out that they had been fighting a warlock. Stiles asked Scott after all of the visitors trickled out of the room, pair by pair. It was probably a magically induced coma, because Stiles hadn’t hit his head against anything. The broken leg was a result of panic on the werewolf-Scott’s part. (Which he apologized for, for about 2 hours.) It probably was _real_ , this fuck of a warlock probably manipulated time and space or whatever warlocks did—Stiles wasn’t an expert, he just knew a shit ton of reversal spells, now. But anyway, point of the matter was—that whatever happened was magic. And it wasn’t…real, except that it was.

It was a fucked up situation that Stiles didn’t really want to get into.

It takes Stiles six and a half weeks to heal completely, and take the itchy as all hell cast off. But he’s _free_. He can walk and jump and, well, talk to people—but that doesn’t have to do with the cast. 

Stiles cooks his dad meals and stays inside for the most part because he can’t drive with a broken leg, but Scott comes over a lot during those six weeks and they hang out, and Stiles feels like things are a little bit normal again.

No one really knows what happened during the whole magical coma, but that’s alright. Those months (that were actually only fourteen days) were his, and sometimes he doesn’t need to share everything.

Things seemed back to normal, and Stiles was glad. Seriously, he was genuinely happy to see his father smiling and _actually_ eating vegetables without complaint. That was a little weird, but Stiles figures after the shock of Stiles being back wears off, the begrudging acceptance will be back, too.

So, yeah. Stiles takes care of his father and surfs the web and catches up on homework and hangs out with Scott.

But he doesn’t see Derek. 

It’s not like Derek tries to go out of his way to meet with him, or anything—but Stiles doesn’t either. He’s afraid that, like, the second he sees Derek his feelings will leak, or something. That Derek will be able to smell the angst and love from Stiles’ fucking jeep. That would be kind of embarrassing, especially because these feelings were nothing but Stiles’. 

Stiles is sitting on the couch, flexing his prune-y, cast-less toes against the cushions when Scott speaks up, finally done with texting Allison a love poem, or whatever he was doing. Maybe he was texting Isaac a love poem. Everyone seemed to get love poems for Scott except for Stiles. Rude.

“I just can’t believe a warlock took out the both of you, man.”

“Huh?” 

“You and Derek, dude.”

“Scott, what are you talking about?” Stiles tilts his head and flickers his eyes away from the TV, focusing on Scott. Scott, who looks so innocently perplexed, as if _Stiles_ was the one who said something confusing. 

“The warlock.” Scott repeats slowly. “You and Derek? You guys were all…comatose. And stuff.”

“Derek got hit, too?”

“You didn’t know?”

Stiles’ mouth dries, and it takes three tries of dry gulping before Stiles can actually swallow. “When did he wake up?”

“I think it was the same time you did? I was in your room, but that’s what Isaac—Stiles?”

But Stiles isn’t listening. He’s slamming his (still sore) feet into socks and sneakers, pulling on a hoodie, and nearly running (sort of wobbling, but whatever) to his car, because _that fucking idiot._

He’s outside of Derek’s house in record time, banging on the door even though Derek probably already knew he was there. “Derek, open up, you complete _asshole_. You dick, you mother fucking—“

Derek opens the door looking wary, like he did when Stiles was on his couch while non-existing, and Stiles growls. It’s an angry, hurt sort of sound that’s not nearly as threatening as he wanted it to be, but he wraps his arms around Derek’s neck and kisses him like it’s _Derek_ who’ll disappear this time, and not the other way around.

It’s not like Derek’s werewolf-self can’t fully support Stiles’ weight, (Stiles is pretty sure Derek could, like, hold him with one hand or something) but the shock of it causes the both of them to stumble backwards until Derek’s leaning against the staircase, fingers digging into Stiles’ hips so hard that there are definitely going to be bruises there. Not that Stiles cares.

“You’re,” Stiles pants, “an asshole.” His face is buried into Derek’s shoulder and he’s holding on for dear life, because this is familiar to him now, too. He’s had this for what seemed to him to be three months—five if you include the time they sort of danced around each other—and he knows how Derek kisses and breathes and sleeps. And Derek was the _biggest fucking asshole to ever walk the planet_ because he acted like it never happened.

“You were there. Don’t lie. You were—that was _you_. This you. It was the same.”

Derek’s quiet, so Stiles continues. He’s always been the speaker, anyway.

“Why didn’t you say anything? Why couldn’t you just…I confessed, man! I did. I told you I loved you, this you, that you, it didn’t fucking matter because it was you, so why didn’t you—oh my god, unless I totally read this situation wrong, and you’re not even into me. You felt bad that I was like, invisible, and—” Stiles is trying to pull away, thinking of worst case scenarios.

Derek just tightens his hold. “I wouldn’t do that. If I didn’t like something, I wouldn’t indulge in it.” Which, okay, that’s pretty true. Derek Hale doesn’t do shit he doesn’t want to do. “Could you stop trying to run away?” Derek breathes.

“Excuse me? You can say that to me right now?”

“I was giving you time to _heal._ ”

“Well look at that, we’ve got ourselves a proper hero over here.”

“Stiles.” It’s exasperated and fond, the tone of voice (and smile) commonly attributed to Stiles Stilinski, and it sounds _so good_ that Stiles kind of just wants Derek to keep talking to him forever.

“I didn’t know if—“ Derek grunts as he tries to use his words, and Stiles can feel himself letting out a huff of laughter, because he knows Derek, he knows him more than he thought, and it’s beautiful. “If you really…if this was what you wanted. I was the only person in that so called reality that could communicate with you, Stiles. It does things to people. Or, maybe—maybe it was all magic. The whole thing was my story alone.”

Stiles hadn’t thought of that. It would have been really embarrassing if Stiles was the only actual one in the magical reality. Oh. It also made Stiles think of just how much time Derek had to really, really think about this. Especially since Stiles wasn’t exactly coming around, either.

“I want it. You. This. Whatever it is, I don’t know, really. But I think we could try? Because you…I like you.” Stiles blurts, and it’s embarrassing even though he’s already told Derek that he’s practically in love with him.

It’s going to be weird, they’re going to have some explaining to do—but it’ll be fine. They’ve been through weirder.

 

 

“What I said was true, though—when we were in the warlock’s reality.”

“What was?” They’re lying on Derek’s bed, and it’s a little bit déjà vu, but Stiles doesn’t mind. He’s tucked into the crook of Derek’s shoulder because it’s cold outside, and Derek’s house is slowly but surely being remodeled but you can still hear the wind pass through the wood. So he’s wedged himself closer to the best heating system in the world, content with taking a lazy nap until Derek made him do something productive.

“You smelt like home. You’ve always smelt like home.”

“What does that smell like?”

Derek presses his nose against Stiles’ now slightly longer hair, fingertips stroking lazy patterns onto his lower back. “Like coffee and oranges.”

“And how do you know that’s the smell of home?” Derek’s being cute, but Stiles is deciding to be cheeky. Sort of. (If he were standing, his knees would probably be a little wobbly.)

“Because it's your scent.”

Stiles, so far, has been the only one to say I love you—but he doesn’t mind. He knows Derek has some things to work past. Besides, Derek says things like this that mean just as much. 

Their kisses that night are a little sweeter and slower than usual, but Stiles doesn’t mind. It causes a slow burning; a warm, passionate feeling that flares from his toes to his ears, and it’s kind of maddening and deafening all at once. 

Derek traces a triskelion into the skin of Stiles’ shoulder blade, filled with promises and forever, if possible. Derek doesn’t need to say it out loud. Stiles knows what it means.

He doesn’t mind.

**Author's Note:**

> Well I don't really...know...what happened here? It kind of--I don't know. _I don't know._
> 
>  
> 
> Once again, I'm sorry for mistakes. It's kind of not beta'd. 
> 
> I hope that maybe this wasn't that awful of a read?
> 
> Have a good new years, guys.


End file.
